


The Mourinho-Guardiola Collision

by Flywoman



Category: Football RPF, The Big Bang Theory (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, and Xavi Hernández are the finalists for this year's prestigious Cruyff Prize... for the best Ph.D. thesis in particle physics. AU crossover with <i>The Big Bang Theory</i>. Written for <a href="http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/"><b>karaokegal</b></a>'s <a href="http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/1557787.html">Come As You're Not 2012 Challenge</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mourinho-Guardiola Collision

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Tragically, none of these characters are mine.  
> Warnings: AU, genderswap, blatant Barcelona bias, a tendency towards crack, and a nearly complete ignorance of physics despite passing acquaintance with numerous physicists.  
> Why it's a costume: This is the first football rpf AU I've posted, I've never written anything for TBBT before, I'm usually a stickler for consistency with canon, it's Josep for god's sake, and finally, I find the idea of writing genderswap to be deeply disturbing.  
> Thanks: To jezziejay, as always, for much-appreciated beta and encouragement :D

  
"As chair of this year's Johan Cruyff Award Committee, I can tell you that deciding among our finalists was extremely difficult. All three of them have produced outstanding Ph.D. theses and made significant contributions to the field..."

As Marie Odile-Amaury droned on, Pep Guardiola turned his head slightly and glanced down the row beside him. His graduate students and postdocs sat or sprawled in varying degrees of attentiveness (and possibly, at least in some cases, inebriation), stealing occasional surreptitious glances over at their labmates Leo Messi and Xavi Hernández on Pep's other side, conveniently adjacent to the aisle.

These last two, of course, already knew who the winner was, since traditionally the last lecture of the conference was delivered by the Cruyff awardee on his or her thesis work. Leo was sickly pale and vibrating like a taut string; he kept gulping ominously and using one sweaty hand to push his messy brown bangs out of his eyes. Xavi, several years his senior and an old hand at public presentations, perched calmly beside him, unruly curls tamed for the occasion, heavy-lidded eyes serene. He wore a slightly resigned expression and every so often reached over to pat Leo encouragingly on the knee.

It was too bad, really, Pep reflected; in any other generation, Xavi probably would have been a shoe-in for this award. But against his genius labmate who had made such unprecedented strides in a far sexier subfield, he'd had no chance. In their years of working together in the lab, Xavi had displayed some understandable tension and resentment when confronted with the younger man's accolades and ballooning reputation. Pep was glad that by now he'd gotten used to being stuck in Leo's shadow and had taken on the role of a protective older brother, no longer disappointed by a permanent second place, assisting him when he could, and genuinely pleased by his protegé's continued success.

"And now, without further ado," Amaury was saying, "I would like to call all three of our young finalists to the stage to be acknowledged for their achievements. In third place, from the laboratory of Professor Josep Guardiola at Harvard University, Dr. Xavier Hernández." Xavi rose to a smattering of applause, buttoned his suit jacket, and strode smartly up to and onto the stage to shake Amaury's hand with at least some semblance of enthusiasm, then stood next to her, smiling.

"In second place, from the laboratory of Professor José Mourinho at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Dr. Cristiano Ronaldo." A tall, graceful young man, impeccably coiffed and wearing a tailored suit that set off his broad shoulders and narrow waist, joined the other two onstage, accompanied by bellows and ear-splitting whistles from the MIT contingent clustered around his mentor. Ronaldo shook Amaury's hand perfunctorily and then stood facing forward, staring sullenly out over the audience.

"And our finalist, who has the honor of presenting his recent research to all of us this evening... an exceptional talent who needs no introduction to anyone who reads the top journals... and who has already completed an impressive body of work and defended his doctoral thesis at the tender age of twenty-five... also from the laboratory of Professor Josep Guardiola at Harvard, Dr. Lionel... Andrés... _Messi_."

There was a sudden abortive movement next to Pep. He nudged Leo hard with his knee until his former student wobbled to his feet, white-faced, looking alarmingly as if he might simply keel over in a dead faint. "LEO!" his labmates cheered loudly, led by Francesca and Gerard, his oldest friends, who had been Leo's college classmates but had started their graduate studies in England before returning to join Guardiola's lab. Their vocal encouragement appeared to restore some of his confidence, and possibly his circulation as well, since Leo lost the deathly pale cast and glared over at them, blushing, then tottered out into the aisle and trotted towards the stage.

Amaury welcomed him with a warm smile and a steadying hand on his shoulder, pointing him towards the podium, and Leo ducked his head and grinned and stood there, swaying from side to side as if he still might bolt from the stage at any moment. Pep wondered how he could have missed the fact that his award-winning student's suit was not a dignified dark grey, or even brown, but rather a dusky plum. He looked disturbingly like Willy Wonka, and when he plunged his hands nervously into his jacket pockets, Pep half-expected them to emerge gleaming with foil-wrapped chocolates.

"Thank you," Leo mumbled. Amaury touched him on the shoulder again and gestured at the microphone; Leo reddened but obediently yanked his hands out of his pockets, bent it further down and stepped forward to speak into it. "This is... this is a tremendous honor for me. I would like to thank my advisor, Pep Guardiola; my thesis committee, my labmates, my friends and family..." He paused for polite applause.

"And also, most importantly..." Leo took a deep breath before plunging ahead. "I would like to share this award with my labmate, Xavi Hernández." He shoved the hair out of his eyes and looked directly at his friend, his hand trembling as it clutched the microphone like a lifeline, but his soft voice sure. "Xavi, we have been working on this project together for four years. You deserve the award as much as I do, and I never would have gotten here without your help."

Pep felt his chest swell with pride as his painfully shy student wrapped up the longest speech that he had ever heard him make in public without any prompts. However, that it had been so sweet, so generous in intent, was no surprise. This was _Leo_ , after all.

A disbelieving but delighted smile spread on Xavi's sharp-featured face, his eyes becoming suspiciously bright as their labmates roared their appreciation, and when Leo forced himself to let go of the microphone and staggered over to him, he reached out to enfold the younger man in a hard hug. Pep could tell that Leo's knees were shaking as he leaned against Xavi for support, and he saw rather than heard the older man murmur, "Thanks, Leo, that really meant a lot. Now don't be scared! It's beautiful work. _Believe me, you can do this._ "

Beside them, Ronaldo looked over the heads of the crowd, a disdainful expression flattening and hardening his attractive face. His tall, slim, elegant figure made Leo and Xavi look like squat, slightly grubby garden gnomes. The contrast was not lost on the conference attendees, who were whispering and smirking behind their hands. Well, fortunately this was a prize for intellectual achievement and not a beauty contest. Talent, charisma, and hard work had taken Ronaldo a long way, but like Xavi, he had been born into the wrong generation to claim top honors in the field.

When Xavi finally untangled himself and pushed Leo gently but firmly back towards the podium, Pep shifted in his seat, settling in for the lecture, trying not to make it obvious how nervous he was on Leo's behalf. The boy had come to him with a minor speech impediment on top of his almost crippling shyness, and his presentations at lab group meetings had been semi-regular torture sessions for all concerned. Earlier in the week, he and Xavi had drilled Leo over and over again in preparation for this very public appearance, alternately criticizing and encouraging until his slides and delivery were as close to perfect as possible, but at this point, it was out of their hands: they were merely two more members of the expectant audience, and all they could do was wait.

Xavi must have had a similar thought, because when he and Ronaldo were released from their positions on the stage and he slipped into the vacant seat next to Pep's, he took his hand and squeezed it hard. Pep grunted and squeezed back, hoping that he was conveying the pride that he felt in his overshadowed student's achievements, and perhaps even more than that, his attitude. But Xavi was thinking only of Leo. "He can do it," he was whispering fiercely. "I know he can."

For the first few minutes, in fact, it seemed patently improbable that Leo could. Despite the microphone, his voice was so soft and his stammering so impenetrable that even Pep found it almost impossible to understand him. And his hands were shaking so much that the green light from his laser pointer danced jerkily over the screen as he flipped through his introductory slides too fast, sometimes skipping over key animations and being forced to go back to revisit a previous point.

Pep felt himself cringing and tried to conceal his growing discomfort as Leo stumbled painfully through his presentation. No matter how creative his ideas, Leo would not have much of a career ahead of him if he didn't learn how to communicate them. Pure research was reserved for the young, and in spite of his obvious brilliance, Leo had not yet demonstrated the sorts of skills that would serve him in a permanent position. Xavi, in contrast, was articulate, self-assertive, a natural leader and mentor, and would be welcome as a tenure-track candidate or lab head anywhere in the world after a suitable postdoctoral training period. Pep was not so sure what fate had in store for his verbally challenged little genius.

Around the room, people were becoming visibly impatient. Phones and iPads came out; laptops were flipped open. A few of the most senior scientists seated in the front rows began nodding off. He could hear snickers coming from the Mourinho group that spread insidiously to those around them.

But then, roughly ten minutes into his talk, Leo's entire attitude changed. Pep could see it happening right in front of him: his former student had been swept up in the beauty and grandeur of his own findings, had forgotten the audience in front of him and with them his fear. His voice lost its hesitancy, deepening into something clearer and bolder, and he smiled unselfconsciously as he spoke about the astonishing insight that had led directly to his latest breakthrough. His face was lit up with the childlike joy and wonder that Pep had surprised so often on coming into the room where Leo was working, lost in thought, scrawling frantically on a scrap of paper or an old napkin.

And the restless audience responded. Looking around, Pep saw that they were, to a man, listening to Leo with rapt attention (and in the case of some of his labmates, impressed surprise). Xavi had his hands clasped tightly together as his lips moved in tandem with Leo's, following along with every word, and his eyes shone with pride. The rest of the hour flew by as they all sat there, silent, mesmerized by Messi's magic.

When the slide show ended on Leo's acknowledgments and the lights finally came on, there was a second of stunned silence before waves of applause swept through the room, almost carrying the dazed-looking speaker with them.

 

Gerard and Francesca almost ran their advisor over in their rush to get to Leo afterwards, to throw their arms around him and thump him on the back. Pep patted Leo paternally on the shoulder and smiled, but his gaze was drawn irresistibly to the opposite side of the center aisle, where a handsome, middle-aged man with silver hair and dark, disdainfully arched eyebrows had already gathered a small group around himself. Even if his unmistakably resonant voice hadn't carried as well as it always did, his expression and gestures would have left Pep in no doubt of the main point he was trying to make. Pep frowned.

"I'm going over there to have a word with José," he said in an undertone to Xavi, who had his arm slung fraternally around Leo's neck.

"I could-" Xavi began.

"No, no," Pep responded quickly. "Be right back. You stay here with Leo."

"I'm not going to speak about the judges," José was declaiming with a grandiose sweep of his hand as Pep approached, his students and postdocs watching with a mixture of wariness and admiration. "Of course, they have once again managed to overlook the greater significance of my lab's contributions to the progress of this field... but I'm not going to speak about the judges."

Pep reached deliberately for his hand with a nod for Ronaldo, who stood rigidly nearby, looking like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Congratulations, José. Excellent work from your prize pupil."

His old rival shook it with a far firmer grip than necessary. "It was, it was. And we saw some neat little solutions from your student as well. Of course, young Messi is not yet as complete a scientist as Ronaldo. There were some obvious flaws in his model that I will share with you later."

"Why not now?" Pep challenged him.

José looked him up and down, his lower lip jutting out just a little as his leonine face twisted in a sneer. "Let's go back to my room, shall we? The list is long, and I certainly wouldn't want to embarrass you in public."

"Of course not, we all know how much you hate making a scene," Pep said with a straight face. He turned his head to catch Xavi's eye and jerked his chin in the direction of the exit. "Go on ahead to the party," he mouthed. "I'll look for you later."

 

"And where is your right-hand man this evening?" José purred as they strolled back to the elevator together. "Pito, was it?"

"Tito's well, thanks for asking," Pep replied politely, determined not to let his rival get his goat. "He's been looking after the lab in my absence."

"It's a big job," José grunted, making it obvious by his tone that he didn't believe Vilanova to be up to the task.

"It is," Pep agreed, "but then, he also has my senior postdoc Carles Puyol to help him out."

"Is Puyol still hanging around the lab?" José raised his eyebrows and tutted. "Hasn't he been talking about going on the job market for several years now? Tell him that he shouldn't wait too long. The best places want a return on their investment."

Pep couldn't help laughing at that. "You can't buy loyalty, José. And the 'best' places know they'd be lucky to get him. Anyway," he added, returning the conversation to its original topic, "he and Tito have kept the lab running smooth as clockwork. My group members rarely cause me any trouble."

"Well, you select them carefully, don't you?" José sneered. "I'll take talent over a docile personality any day."

"That much is obvious, judging from the stories I've heard," Pep said dryly, then could have kicked himself.

But José didn't seem displeased. "It takes a special kind of man to keep that bunch of arrogant superstars in line," he said in a self-satisfied tone, punching the number 7 as the elevator doors slid shut.

Privately Pep wondered how even José's laboratory could be big enough to hold all of those egos, but all he said was, "I prefer to rule by love rather than fear," as they started to ascend.

"Oh yes," José said with a sly smile. "I'm sure that Sam and Ronald felt your love when you booted them out of your lab that first year."

Pep said nothing, although his throat burned with the strength of his desire to protest. His original postdocs had been talented, yes, but a terrible influence on the junior members of the lab, particularly the brilliant but impressionable Leo. He had never had reason to regret that decision.

At any rate, they had arrived. José pulled a slim leather wallet out of his pocket to retrieve his room key card, slid it suavely through the reader, then gestured with a mocking half-bow for Pep to precede him. "After you, old friend," he said.

Pep had just enough time to notice that the curtains were drawn, the lights strategically dimmed, before the door clicked closed behind him and José was plunging his hands into his pants, pulling their pelvises together. He responded immediately, eagerly, bending to clasp the back of the other man's neck, to inhale the barest hint of expensive cologne before their mouths met in a kiss, grinding his hips against José's like an overeager teenager. He felt himself harden, was forced to smile self-deprecatingly at the evidence that neither the decades nor their recently rekindled rivalry had dimmed his desire in the slightest.

The same was true for José, if his harsh, urgent breaths were anything to go by. He pushed his tongue insistently into Pep's mouth, probably standing on tiptoe to do it, his palms pressing insistently against his briefs, fingertips digging into his buttocks. Pep permitted himself a moan, surrounded by José's heat and familiar smell. His old labmate and rival was a force of nature, impossible to resist, and Pep had long since learned to stop trying, even if putting up a show of reluctance often only enhanced the experience. He found himself fumbling with clumsy fingers at the other man's fly.

José growled, released Pep from his grip and unbuckled both their belts. They continued kissing desperately even as shirt buttons popped and rolled and trousers slid down around their ankles. When José began maneuvering them towards the bed, Pep went willingly, toeing his shoes off and kicking them into a corner.

As always, both men wanted to be on top, and while Pep had the edge in reach and strength, José's lower center of gravity - and more importantly, his willingness to win at any cost - ensured that it was he who eventually got the upper hand in their wrestling match and then plunged into Pep from behind as the former Harvard professor muffled his groans of pleasure against a pillow.

José was muttering something in rhythmic Portuguese, although he'd taken so many international positions by this point that Pep sometimes found himself forgetting that it was his native tongue. Their solid bodies smacked together satisfyingly, then peeled slightly apart again, with every assertive stroke.

At last José gasped, "Deus - _Deus-_ " and suddenly his hips stuttered uncontrollably, pushing Pep further down into the folds of the comforter. He had reached around Pep's waist to help him along, and José's urgent caresses, combined with the sounds he was making, were enough to send Pep over the edge after a few seconds as well. He pressed his face harder into the pillow to keep from crying out, his fists twisting spasmodically into the sheets as he spent.

Afterwards Pep felt raw, exposed, and a little dizzy. He turned over onto his back, letting the tingling warmth and sense of satiation spread from his pelvis through his torso and limbs, and stared up at the ceiling, waiting for it to stop spinning.

"Glad that you were able to make it to this meeting after all," José murmured after a moment, rolling over onto his side and propping his head on his hand, pinning Pep with those dark, sardonic eyes.

"It's been too long," Pep acknowledged, feeling the giddiness recede as his heartbeat slowed. Without sitting up, he allowed himself to stroke José's smooth shoulder, to flick his fingernail teasingly at a nipple.

"How are you enjoying your sabbatical at Princeton?" José inquired eventually, with an odd twist to his lips.

"It's fantastic," Pep answered without hesitation. "It's quiet, peaceful, I have plenty of time to think, to work... and on the weekends, I often go into the city, visit museums, attend the theater..."

"New York," José grunted dismissively, and Pep chuckled.

"It may not be the intellectual mecca we've come to expect from Cambridge, true, but it does have its advantages."

"You don't miss it at all?" José was watching him carefully, alert as always for the slightest sign of weakness. "Giving lectures, advising postdocs, serving on thesis committees?"

Pep shrugged his shoulders ruefully. "I'm not like you, José. I don't crave the spotlight. I do miss my trainees, yes, but... at the end of this year, I was just burned out. Stupid departmental politics, _university_ politics, and so much work to get Leo's brilliant ideas organized into something coherent enough for publication... I really needed some time to recharge." He smiled then and poked José in his softening belly. "By the way, I heard that you decided to stay at MIT. I didn't think I'd ever see you settle down in one place."

José pursed his lips. "Pfft. It's a four year contract, not a lifetime commitment. Long enough to make my mark and get my current postdocs into t-t positions. After that, who knows?" He pushed Pep's hand away, not ungently, and reached down to fumble under the sheets for his shirt. "Anyway, don't let me keep you. I know you have a party to attend."

It was only as he was leaving, his hand still on the doorknob as it latched behind him, that it occurred to Pep that what José had really been asking was, _don't you miss me?_

***

The conference party was in full swing by the time that Pep made an appearance, freshly showered and dressed more casually in a sweater and slacks. A Shakira remix was thumping in the background, the lights were low, and the mingled stench of spilled alcohol and infrequently washed bodies was growing stronger by the second.

He was happy to see that his people were mingling as enthusiastically as could reasonably be expected from academic physicists; part of his philosophy had always been to help them develop as decent members of society, not simply as scientists. His most junior grad student Alexis Sanchez was easiest to spot, surrounded by admirers as usual, her velvety voice rising in delighted laughter, no doubt at one of her own jokes. Alexis' infectious good humor, even after months of failed experiments as she'd struggled to make the switch from a more theoretical background, had made her one of Pep's favorites.

Nearby, research assistant Dani Alves was flirting outrageously with a handsome young Indian postdoc in an oddly patterned sweatervest, one hand waving around what Pep suspected was a very strong drink, the other running suggestively up and down the back of her recently shaved head as she batted her lashes at him. With her tattoos and multiple piercings, she fitted the image of Pep's lab even less than that of physicists in general, but Dani was quick and versatile, able to switch between tasks and help out Pep's trainees however she was needed.

Behind her, his recently hired postdoc David Villa was trying to hit up one of the few female postdocs present from a lab other than his own. He had put on too-tight pants secured with an enormous shiny buckle and leopardskin boots and was apparently in the process of trying to grow out a beard.

Pep made his way through the crowd of people in the middle of the floor doing something that could charitably be described as dancing, sidestepping and apologizing as he went, until he got close to the corner where Xavi was holding court, Leo leaning heavily on his shoulder and obviously doing his drunken best to look solemn. Gerard and Francesca were with them, arms casually linked, looking none too sober themselves.

A tall, thin young man whom Pep recognized at once as the Cruyff prizewinner from 2006 appeared to have struck up a conversation with the two finalists. "I _would_ tell you that your recent paper was almost as elegant a piece of work as my own contribution to the Higgs boson model," the man was saying in a faint but unmistakable Texas drawl, "but that would be a lie." He opened his mouth, gasping and shaking for a few seconds in what Pep eventually realized was laughter.

"Thank you," Leo slurred politely; it was unclear whether he had actually understood, but he probably would have responded the same way regardless. Beside him, Xavi had drawn his brows together and was just opening his mouth to say something cutting when a second man, shorter and stockier, pushed his black-rimmed glasses further up his nose and stepped quickly between them.

"I'm sure that what Sheldon meant to say was, congratulations, and we're sure that you'll continue to make important contributions to the field," he offered placatingly, extending his hand to Leo, who blinked and managed to connect with it after a couple of tries.

"That is not at all what I meant to say," Dr. Cooper protested as his friend led him firmly away. "Oh, wait a moment. Barkeep? I'd like another virgin _cuba libre_."

Crisis averted, Pep laid a hand on Leo's shoulder. "That was a terrific job you did up there today, Leo. I'm very proud of you."

"Thank you," Leo said, looking genuinely pleased this time, and then struggled to his feet, swaying a little, to wrap his arms around his mentor's waist. "You taught me so much."

"It was my pleasure," Pep said warmly, patting Leo as if he were an overeager puppy, even as the hug became uncomfortably prolonged.

"I miss you," Leo mumbled suddenly against his chest. "When are you coming back?"

He smiled, a little sadly, and met Xavi's alert eyes over Leo's head. "As soon as I can, you know that. I promise. But you've all been doing wonderfully without me." He gently disentangled himself from the younger man and helped Xavi settle him back into his seat. "Anyway, you're the man of the hour. Can I get you something to celebrate?"

"I think we've already taken care of that," Xavi said dryly. As if in agreement, Leo hiccupped happily and then laid his head on Xavi's shoulder and went to sleep.

"Did it entail more than two beers?" Pep asked, and Xavi smirked.

"Just barely. Of course, you missed the earlier phase where he was singing the Argentina national anthem and trying to get me to tango with him on top of the table."

"Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?" Gerard joked.

Pep groaned and pretended to cover his eyes in embarrassment, although he was secretly pleased that his young protegé had actually been able to relax and have a good time after the evening's stressful ordeal.

Suddenly Xavi's amused expression changed to one of concern. "Wait a sec, here comes Dani. What's wrong?" he asked the petite Brazilian, who had just stalked over to them in a huff.

She tossed her head, earrings jangling. "Damn. I thought that Indian guy was kind of cute until he got a few drinks in him and started bragging about how rich his parents were and how, if I transferred to Caltech, he'd buy me a car. Asshole."

"Dani," Pep said reprovingly, but she only flashed him a brilliant and entirely unrepentant smile.

"Sorry, boss. Whoops, looks like little Leo's ready to call it a night." She cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered, " _Masche._ We need a little assistance over here."

Even as their senior technician Javier Mascherano obligingly lumbered over and hauled Leo's limp arm over his shoulder, David appeared behind Pep, hands on narrow hips. "You guys ready to go? Good, I can't take this anymore."

"No luck with the ladies tonight?" Xavi teased.

"No," David said, his reedy voice rising to an even higher register in indignation. "That guy had the nerve to turn up in the same outfit as me!" He pointed to a cluster of young men that included Cooper and his friend, Dani's hapless Indian swain, and a short, slim Jewish man who was indeed wearing identical pants, belt, and boots, then looked disgusted when his labmates roared with laughter, except for the oblivious Leo, who was snoring softly and drooling on Masche's shirt. "What? _What?_ "

"Never mind," Xavi said, shaking his head. "Let's get Leo to bed. I promised Iker I'd meet up with him around midnight to give him comments on his latest m.s."

Pep gave him a keen look. "Better not let his advisor get wind of that." Since bonding with him at Physics Camp as a teenager, Iker Casillas had become one of Xavi's most loyal friends, but José was well known for firmly discouraging collaborations with members of rival research groups. And good luck keeping any such interactions a secret - when it came to his trainees, he made it his business to know everything, both inside and outside of the lab.

Xavi shrugged. "It's not like I'm going to ask to be in the acknowledgments or anything. We'll keep it discreet."

Gerard coughed noisily, and Francesca elbowed him in the ribs.

"You know," Pep said on impulse, "if Iker's looking for a second postdoc position..."

Xavi laughed. "Ah, thanks, boss. But asking Iker to leave MIT would be like trying to make me move on from Harvard. They'll have to pry our cold, dead fingers off our desks one day."

David rolled his eyes. "On that lovely image," he said, "good night, boss."

"Don't forget," Pep said, "the airport shuttle leaves at 8 am sharp."

"Yeah," Dani said, downing her drink, then straightening her skirt and scanning the room for more likely prospects, "no worries. We'll see you tomorrow."

As he left the bone-jarring beats of the music behind him and headed back upstairs alone, Pep found himself smiling fondly and a little sadly. He did miss his people, every one of them, probably more than they would ever know.

On the other hand, he had needed this break badly; his doctor had just told him that his blood pressure was nearly back to normal, he was sleeping better, and even his hair was starting to grow back a bit. He had planned to spend his sabbatical year enjoying the relative peace of Princeton and had promised to return to his trainees, his friends, his... Pep shied away from any word that could be used to describe his complicated relationship with José. But now he just wasn't so sure.

 _Ah well. You need to take a page from Dani and stop worrying so much,_ he chided himself as he unlocked the door of his hotel room.

A lot could happen in a year.

 

_Fin._

  



End file.
